


The Mating of Sharks

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Character of Color, First Kiss, M/M, Queer Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mating of Sharks

﻿It is not that you never touch—even Slytherins horse-play when they’re in first year, and your parents, behind shut (and locked, and charmed) doors have always been extraordinarily affectionate. It is simply when last you touched him, you were eleven, and his knees were digging into your ribs and you couldn’t breathe above the laughter, and all of it over a new (newly-embarrassing) letter from his mother, detailing wedding number five. You were friends, that year, as you had been all years before, every year you could remember—your father was the one handsome man his mother knew well and not carnally, and so you were practically family, she was practically your aunt—and the years you could barely remember.

It has been five years, now, since you felt so close to him, close enough to touch and know it comfort, and the unfamiliarity of his hand on your shoulder has twisted it from comfort to a low charge, like a drop of _Felix felicis_ running through your blood at the slight pressure of fingers moulding to your flesh through the robes. It is strange to you, and your eyes are strange as you look up at him, face tilted—you know later—as though for a kiss. Pansy had looked at you like that, after the Yule Ball and during it, and you had ignored her. You ignore her now, too, and move to sit beside Nott, who, unconcerned and oblivious, passes you the toast when you ask for sausages.

It’s harder to ignore him, when it should be easier—Circe knows you’ve enough to do, and then studying for the N.E.W.T.s isn’t avoidable—but your beds are next each other, in the dorm, and all your routines are built on not noticing what the other does. You’re not sure—you’re sure it’s you—who broke that rule, and started noticing, but you know you’ve found him looking at you every time you’ve raised eyes to steal a glance. You brush past him getting dressed in the mornings, and sit close enough in classes to trade cynical looks without obstructions—in Potions you find yourself inevitably partnering him, and Slughorn favouring him stops neither from rolling eyes when precious, perfect Potter is praised yet again. It’s comfortable, and it’s friendship—you think it’s friendship, it’s possible your knowledge of that concept is entirely theoretical—and you think you imagined the excitement low in your belly when he met your eyes on the train, and held them. You were thinking of other things, and it could have as easily been Pansy’s proximity, or the confused memories of Aunt Bella that started the low burn of awareness.

And then you hear him wanking, awake late and brooding, low grunts and moans bitten sternly back and the insistent sound of skin on skin. It isn’t a sound you’ve heard from that bed before—you know how Nott sounds and Crabbe and Goyle, and that is knowledge you could have easily done without—and you’ve wondered but briefly about it; you dutifully cast a _Muffliatio_, and had assumed the same the case. But he’s forgotten—or chosen not to—and your hand on your cock, and your mouth around your hand, biting down, are all that stop you from climbing from your bed and walking to his. You’re not sure, minutes later, ruminatively tasting yourself, licking your fingers clean, whether you would have mocked him, or climbed into his bed. (You’re terrified it’s the latter and can’t meet his eyes in the morning.)

You hear him again skulking to bed without dinner to avoid the tortured rumours about Katie Bell, and stand in the middle of the room, unsettled, before casting a _Muffliatio_ around his bed and crawling into yours. You should have nicked Potter’s Invisibility Cloak—you want to climb, unseen, into his bed and watch him come to pieces, hand around cock curving over flat belly and slim hips arching up and that full mouth open in gasps and legs spread so you can see his balls tightening against his body and body curved in ejaculation and the semen dripping white against his skin, and his bright, sated smile, and the two rasping syllables of your name on his hoarse voice. But it’d likelier be Jordan or Flint, or Nott, and the idea not worth considering and your erection, painful against your stomach, not worth attending to.

That he forgot twice in the space of as many weeks after meticulously remembering at least as many years, if not double that, is an uncomfortable thought, and an unlikely coincidence, and the look he favours you with, questioning, dismissive, stays like a burr beneath the skin. It could as easily be an act of repulsion to have cast the spell—he makes no secret of his inclinations, and you nothing but a secret of yours. A week of such looks and you catch him coming off the Quidditch pitch—he hates the game and loves flying, some remnant of a long-dead father—and pull him into an empty classroom, and realise, a little desperate, that you’ve no idea how to proceed without making an utter fool of yourself.

You wait long enough he steps, still seemingly puzzled, to the door to wrench it open, and you step in front of him and put your arms around his neck and your body against his and you rest your head against him and let yourself hope your desire translates itself, and your pathetic ignorance—and if not, it is simply an embrace, and you can lie well enough to ensure silence, and no matter what truth he knows. You’ve left yourself vulnerable enough this can hardly be a trap—but his proclivities are known and Pansy thinks herself your girlfriend/fiancée/groomer and if you so desired you could frame him as the aggressor, and he knows the truth of that, too. His hands on your waist are hesitant, and you wait the length of three heart beats loud in your ears before he puts an arm around you, gathering you closer, and sinks the other hand in your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he says, after some unmeasured time, and his voice is easy and amused, and his mouth against your ear. “Draco, you absolute idiot, did you think I’d refuse you?”  



End file.
